


To New York and (Almost) All the Way Back

by 00qverlord



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton Feels, Deaf Clint Barton, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, PTSD & Recovery, References to Depression, The Dismantling of Hydra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 03:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00qverlord/pseuds/00qverlord
Summary: Kate took his dog, dammit! It's not the first time she's done it, but Clint's problem is she took his dog,and she didn't. Take. Clint.-----In which Clint is a lonely human disaster, Kate Bishop is the only real problem solver, and Bucky Barnes just wants some damn peace and quiet.





	To New York and (Almost) All the Way Back

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I'll Keep You Safe Here With Me.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907085) by [sara_holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes). 



> I originally intended this to be one long story that was up at like 44 thousand words or around there, but I'm uploading it in chapters now I guess. Oh well. Maybe I'll change it. Or something. This is what I work on when I procrastinate on other stuff, so yeah I hope you enjoy.  
> This was inspired by one of Sara_Holmes ' brilliant works, however this has no official affiliation with it. I just loved that one so much and I also wanted to write a "clint on the road ft. Winterhawk" au.

Clint didn't start the bar fight, but he was definitely involved now. Someone smashes a bottle over his back and his first response is to turn around and deck them. He'd been stressed the whole night, tension building to the point he'd resorted to going to a bar to try and drink the tightness in his shoulders away. The Winter Soldier is loose and all over the news. Nat is alright, but now there's a second Russian assassin running around the streets of New York. Clint is also upset with Fury for sending him out to Serbia for a low risk intel mission, which a damn level 4 could have done in their sleep. He comes back to a city in shambles, and the first thing he does is drink. Well, until the fight.

Clint has no idea who he's fighting, but the sounds of breaking bottles and fists hitting various parts of different people are everywhere. Clint punches someone square in the jaw as hard as he can, but in return gets shoved from behind into a table. He notices a whole gaggle of people trying to escape through the front door before they got tangled up in this mess, and Clint lets them go. He doesn't plan on leaving until the cops show up, but he isn't going to drag anyone into the fight who doesn't want to be involved. 

He whirls around, grabbing a half broken, jagged beer bottle, turning and smacking it over the head of the person behind him. Some guy comes at him and swings, but Clint catches his fist and retaliates with a blow of his own. knocking the guy back. Adrenaline spikes in his heart as a lady throws herself onto his back from where she was standing on one of the tables. He throws her off her back and on to the ground in front of him with a simple flip. Recruit move, easily done even when he was smashed beyond belief. Fights are better when he can't think, can't see, and can't feel the other blows coming at him. It's just chaos and it's amazing for clearing his thoughts.

Clint only realizes the police are here and it's time to split because everyone else stops fighting and looks vaguely panicked. As soon as he calms himself down enough to hear past the other patron's chatter, he can hear the sirens out front. He's lucky the bar has a back door, and he goes for it, 3 or 4 smart people who have the same idea trailing along behind him. The door leads to a shady, pitch black alley, and while everyone else makes for the exit, Clint smacks his face into the fire escape. In a split second decision, he starts the climb to the top, drunken elephant feet and all, coming to the roof. He's hit with a cool blast of fresh wind as his phone rings as he hits the top. He pats his pockets and feels it in the one of the back ones, and he pulls it out.   
The caller ID says 'Stark' with a middle finger emoji.   
Clint seriously considers either pocketing it or just watching it ring. He knows Tony doesn't care enough to call him until another couple of days, but if he could get it over with now, despite the bruises forming over his cheek and hip and his desire to go home and sleep, it'd be better. 

"Barton!" Tony's voice is static-y behind the electrical discourse between the phone and his hearing aids, but it's still distinctly Tony.  "How're you doing, buddy?"   
"Hey, Tony. I'm fine, why?" Clint replies. He just wants to be left alone, a strong tug in his heart and the back of his brain.   
"What's my favourite archer up to?" Clint can hear something else in Tony's voice that he can't quite identify with his brain in a pleasant haze.  
"...What do you really want, Stark?"   
"Alright, I saw the bar fight on the news and I tracked your phone and it showed you were at the bar," Tony rushes out. Clint hopes Tony can feel his apprehension through the phone speakers.  
He can't think of a response, so when he slings out a quick "I'm fine, really Tony," he feels like a liar. He hits the end button before Stark can get another word in.

====

He wakes up in his bed with a fully packed bag and a killer hangover. Almost every useful material item in his Bed-Stuy apartment, clothes and such, are stuffed into a medium-sized camp backpack, the only reasonably sized bag he had. The grey and black canvas has bumps in places items were pressing against the material, shoved in too tight, but the zippers close and that's all that matters.   
His quiver full of arrows with the cover on top is strapped to one side, and his fold-able compact bow in it's case is strapped to the other.   
Apparently his drunken self is more willing than his hungover self to take action against the Tony phone call, which had bothered him for the rest of the night.   
He moves to call for Lucky, to grab a drink and take his dog for a walk even though he feels like something had crawled into his mouth and died, just to try to stop the horrid feeling in the pit of his stomach.   
He rolls out of bed, turns around and opens his mouth, and remembers Katie, his best friend in the whole wide world stole his dog and traipsed down the way to California (in a rent-a-car, of all things), land of the prospering people to "find herself and stake a place as a hero for hire."   
Still, going on a cross country journey to get his beloved dog back from the evil clutches of his best friend would give him more of a destination and a purpose than waiting around so he could fight next to super-beings that made him look like an ant. The company wasn't bad, and he would miss Steve's super-dadding. He knew that it wasn't directed at him, as opposed to the whole team in general, but it was just in Steve's nature.   
But there is always a doubt, a small prick in the back of his head, "what if the mind control isn't really over, what if it's just dormant, what if you hurt them again?" And Clint, who isn't necessarily known for talking out his emotions (he' going to bottle them up, and then one day, he'll die), is definitely leaning towards the idea of running away to California like an angsty teenager.  
He grabs his bag, his phone and charger, and a bottle of advil, set in his decision.   
He's going to get his dog back.   
And Clint guesses Kate can come too, if she wants.

===

Clint's been on the bus headed south for somewhere around a half hour before he realizes he forgot his jacket. He curses at himself under his breath, "goddamn it Clint," short and sweet, but the lady across from him shoots him a shocked look and covers her son's ears, who looks up from his game at her curiously.   
Clint slides down in his seat a little farther. 

He has plans to cross the border to Pennsylvania and somehow make his way down to California even though he doesn't have a car. He also does't know the USA all that well, despite spending most of his life here. He should probably pick up a map at some point.

He's taking the bus as far south as it can go, which will still be a while. He lets himself drift off and stare out the window, connecting his hearing aids to the Bluetooth on his phone, playing his music at a comfortable volume.

When the bus hit the last stop, Clint is told to get off. He doesn't realize that it's the last stop, so technically they can't blame him or yell at him. He grabs his bag and smooths over the band-aid on his arm. It's a lot colder, which is strange considering it's summer and New York was technically more north. Clint isn't going to let weather patterns confuse him though, he's tired, it's dark, and the closest motel doesn't really seem all that close.

It's fine, Clint's roughed it on the streets enough to know how to stay alive through the night.

Clint does, in fact, find a motel, but it's attached to a restaurant on one side, and a bar on the other which apparently features some pretty heavy gambling. But they charge 20 bucks for the night and yeah, it probably has mold and cockroaches but Clint can't help but feel like maybe this is where he belongs anyway. He's used to being out on his own in places like this, and while his apartment back in Bed-Stuy had become his home, it was still way more of a pigsty than his place at Avengers tower. Which is why he stays at his apartment more often. He could never get used to the fancy stainless steel appliances, or the plush living room space or any of the luxurious eccentricities Tony was used to having around all the time. Everyone else seemed pretty enthralled with the space they got, the safe place to stay that had everything they needed, including company in friends. The only reason Clint occasionally pops by is to see Natasha. Unless someone calls him in, but that is rare and for a reason.

He dumps his bag on the bed, strips, and crashes. He forgets to check the mattress for bedbugs, but he figures there was a pretty likely chance anyway. He doesn't open his bag for that reason, and he figures he'll just shower in the morning.

The next morning, he does, in fact, shower, but he guesses he won't be coming  back to this motel any time soon, since the rims of the tub is lined with a certain shade of fuzzy blue that Clint knows to stay far away from.

He doesn't stop at the breakfast bar.

He doesn't stop for breakfast at all, actually. He's in a tiny town with probably no local cab service, and even then he probably doesn't want to use that much money on a cab anyway. There's one main highway that runs through the town and leads to the interstate, so Clint starts his trek south down the 81.

====

The sun is high in the sky. Clint stops for lunch in Scranton, but it's more of a bypass pit-stop and soon he's on his way again. Clint doesn't really have the ability to strip in the sweltering heat like he does back home, since he's only wearing a t-shirt and a pair of light jogging pants. He knows the back of his shirt is soaked in sweat because of the pack on his back, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it. When he thought about taking a break and technically running away to California, he didn't think through all the effort that was required to do this. Maybe he should have just let Kate and Lucky come back in their own time, but that would have meant that any one of the people on his team could have tried to interact with him in a situation he could potentially be unsafe in. Not to mention every time he went into battle, he was the one who came back with broken bones. Everyone else was super-fied. Steve comes back with cuts and bruises at the most, Tony has a metal shell, Hulk is the Hulk and Clint is pretty sure a nuclear bomb couldn't hurt the guy, and Natasha is simply too good at what she does to put herself in danger. Unlike Clint, who willingly jumps off buildings.

Every time a car drives by he sticks his thumb out for a ride and every time they drive past him, he feels a little bit like an idiot. He knows that it's probably because they had families in their car who didn't want to pick up a strange, sweaty 36 year old guy, but he's really missing air conditioning. Like, a lot.

Almost as if a miracle from whoever lives in the clouds at this point happenes, a busted up old red pickup truck slows down beside him, and an older gentleman looking through the passenger side window at Clint. There's a noticeable pause, and they both watch as he leans over to roll down the window, which takes a painfully long time and squeaks every time it completes another circle.

"You looking for a ride there, sonny?" The old man asks him, a neutral tone that doesn't do much to appease his mistrust of strangers, but holds many-a-promise of an air conditioned vehicle and a chance to grab his water bottle from his bag.   
"That'd be fantastic, thank you." Clint replies, a relieved smile showing on his face.   
"Throw 'yer stuff in the back and hop in." The man motions towards the back of the truck, and leans back upright to his seat.   
Clint chucks his bag into the back which landed with a satisfying clunk, and pulls his water out of the side pocket.   
He opens the door, climbs in, and lets himself relax a little bit as he closes the door and clicks his seat belt on. The truck is clean, but looks like it has been loved for a long time, knickknacks hanging from the middle mirror and some groceries on the back seat.

"Where are you headed?" The man asks him, without taking his eyes off the road. Clint appreciates that. He'd rather not die in a strange truck with a strange man, just because said strange man wants to start a conversation.   
Clint glances at the man for a second, but mostly keeps his gaze trained on the road in front of him. "California, I hope."   
The man lets out a short bout of laughter through his nose, "I can take you as far as Chambersburg, 'cause that's where I'm heading. The 81 will continue to take you south."  
Clint looks at the man and nodded, taking the time to study him. He kind of looks like what Clint thinks a stereotypical trucker looks like, the full white beard and red beat up baseball cap, friendly face that Clint would like to think laughs a lot.

During the 3 and a half hour ride, Clint learns a lot, probably more than he's learned in the past month. First, the man's name is Jonathan, which didn't help Clint's trucker opinion of him at all. He also learns that California is  _way_ hotter in the summer than he thought it was. Of course he knew it was hot, but it sounds like the whole state would have to become a nudist colony just to survive.

The town of Chambersburg looks like something out of a movie. The grass is all green and well manicured, and the buildings full of rich history. Clint doesn't have plans to stick around long. The night is coming on fast and he hasn't eaten for a while.   
Jonathan drops him off in a central plaza and directs him to a centre that would help him (city hall? Something like that) and continues on his way. Jonathan hadn't tried to kill Clint once on the ride, so he counted it as a win.

His pack on his back, he stops in at what he thinks is city hall (it's the visitor's centre, turns out). The information desk is tucked into the corner, but there's still a small line of a couple people waiting on, well, information.   
When it's his turn, he shuffles up to the desk, and the lady stares at him. "How can I help you?"   
"I need a map of the US?" He asks, he doesn't have one and hadn't picked one up anywhere back home, and he figures it's better than relying on his phone. She reaches under the desk and Clint freezes.   
Her blue eyes lock with Clint's as she takes out the map and Clint's heart beats faster and his muscles tense, ready to sprint. His mind had clear of everything other than  _Loki, Loki, Loki._

He took the pamphlet calmly from the lady. Clint, logically, knew the lady couldn't possibly be the Asgardian trickster god, but the panic centre of his brain just wasn't having it. Clint mumbled out an excuse and a thank you, turning in the opposite direction back out the door, pushing through any bystanders in his way. His heart rate got faster and his breathing got shallower, and he wasn't entirely sure he was equipped to handle a full-blown panic attack in the middle of nowhere. His nerves spiked with adrenaline, but instead of pacing or running he just slid down the outside of City Hall, and let himself panic for a bit. He could feel the map crinkle in his hand as he crushed it, but couldn't do anything to stop it. He kinda wished Nat or Coulson were here. He kinda wished Kate and Lucky were here. But this, this is exactly why he couldn't go back to being an avenger. Because even though Loki was gone, there was still a little bit of fear that he would turn on the very people he was trying to protect. 

Eventually, Clint's breathing regulated itself and he was able to focus more clearly on the setting sun's skyline and the short brick buildings across the street, filled with historical importance to the town. He let his legs out from under him, stretching them out.   
He unfolded the map in his hands, thankful the damage wasn't extensive enough that he'd have to go back inside and ask for another one.   
Florida had a sizable tear in it though.   
Sorry Florida.

Somewhere around the half hour mark, Clint gained enough confidence in his legs to stand up again. He knew Jonathan was probably long gone by this point. Clint hoped he was happy back at his farm.   
Clint's got an idea.   
He knows how to farm, see, he was raised on one. He couldn't go back to the avengers, see, and Lucky needed a lot of room to run around.   
Well, it seemed like an awfully convenient idea, but he wasn't going to poke fate with a stick. He was going to get his dog back, and maybe his friend, and then he was going to buy a farm.

Pennsylvania was still a long ways away from California though. Here, he was still on eastern standard time. He wondered if Kate and Lucky had gotten used to pacific time, three hours behind him. Probably. Kate was better at everything else anyway, time adjustments may as well have been added to the list.

Clint found a nice looking alley with some pretty comfortable looking trash bags, and settles down beside them. He's trying to save the cash he brought with him for food, rides, or for a motel when it got to the point where he  _really_ needs a shower. Besides, it's not like he'd never camped out in an alley before.   
Clint decides he's going to call Kate. It's not like they haven't talked since she left, but that's exactly what it's like. There has been a couple of check-in texts here and there since she left a couple months ago, but Clint misses her voice. He really just wants someone to talk to who wouldn't judge him for running away from his problems instead of facing them like a proper adult.

 _Brrmm Brrmm. Brrmm Brrmm._  
"Clint?"   
"Hey Katie-Cakes, what's up?" Clint leaned back against the brick wall behind him, and tucks his bag closer under his legs. He tries not to sigh in relief, just hearing that she's ok. Her voice sounds 1000 miles away but it still somehow sounds like home.   
"You didn't like, run away or something and need me to come get you, did you?"  
Never mind.   
"Well, that's a complicated question to answer."  
" _Clinton Francis Barton._ " Oh wow, pulling out the middle names. That stung.   
"It's not technically running away if you have a goal in mind, is it?"   
"...And what would that goal be?" Clint could definitely smell the skepticism in that question, but still tried to answer as innocently as possible.   
"I'm coming to find you, getting my dog, then I'm going to buy a farm and retire."

It's a long shot. There's silence for a bit, and Clint is pretty sure Kate's hung up on him.

 

The alleyway is gross. It smells like piss and spoiled milk, but at least it's not cat-infested this time. Clint hugs his bag in between his knees and his chest as a safe guard.   
He drifts periodically in and out of snoozing, paranoia ramping up hard just when he starts to drift off again. He's not even worried about Hydra, technically, it's not like they'd be looking for him.   
He's more worried about his teammates. Really, at this point, he just wants to be left alone, maybe with occasional liaison from Nat, but the whole superhero biz he didn't think he was sufficiently cut out for. 

Night passes, and the sun rises again.   
Clint is on his feet at the crack of dawn, on his way out of this empty town before the birds have woken. He still has an entire country to cross, but somehow now that his journey has started and he's on day two, it seems more do-able than the strange fever dream it had been yesterday.   
He considers renting a car, but he decides the walk will do him good anyway. Give him time to think.   
And eventually, when he runs out of steam,  _then_ he can rent a car. 

The civilization only gets more sparse the farther out of town he gets, and an hour into the trek, Clint definitely regrets not renting a car.   
However, he trudges on. It's not like he's got anything better to do, and despite the whining to himself, he's still an agent with impeccable training. 

It's just, his back hurts so damn much. Someone come pick him up. Please. 

And like a saving grace, there's a logging truck coming his way. He won't flag him down, but if he can time it right, he can sit on the bumper and hitch a ride.   
The truck whirrs by him, and Clint almost misses. He almost doesn't reach the ledge, but he grabs the bar on the side and swings himself up so he's standing on the rear bumper. His pack is out facing the road behind him, but it's still on his back, so Clint counts it as a win.  
The truck zooms by where he stood only milliseconds before. 

Clint takes a deep breath as he sets his bag down on the bumper beside him, and sits down, letting his feet dangle over the edge. He's in the middle, so they won't hit the tires.   
Careful not to let them fall, he takes out his hearing aids and shoves them in his pocket (where's his stupid case, anyway?). The rumbling of the truck abruptly cuts out, and Clint is left with the view of the golden horizon behind them. 


End file.
